The Powers, inc
by MexicanAlibi
Summary: Doyle and Lorne pick up an unlikely hitchhiker. DC UST.
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: The Powers, inc. AUTHOR: Well, me.  
  
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. I think. So, don't go crying to mummy if you get offended.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle or Lorne, for I am not Joss. One day, God willing, I will be. And on that day you shall ALL KNEEL BEFORE ME! Mwah ha ha ha!! *chokecoughsplutter* FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU BTVS/ATS crossover, or at least, it *will* be. Maybe. (I dunno. What's with all the questions? I'm not on trial here!) It's a Doyle POV kinda deal, and is basically me rewriting every little detail in the Buffyverse since before Angel left Sunnydale. I'm a busy little beaver. And Glenn Quinn really, really kicked ass, so I hope I'm doing him justice here.  
  
Y'know, twelve months ago if anybody had tried to tell me that the pathway to true spiritual enlightenment could be found in a karaoke bar in one of the more seedier corners of LA, I probably would've laughed in their faces and bought them a pint.  
It sounds pretty damn stupid, doesn't it? Finding inner peace at a Karaoke bar? But then again, twelve months ago I hadn't visited the ever-so- lavishly decorated Caritas. Let me tell you something, that place can change your whole perspective on this life. It can turn you completely inside out, man. Well, not in a literal way, because that'd be gross... I mean, in a spiritual kinda way, y'know? It'll make you a better man, or in my particular case, half-man.  
Someone once told me that the best way to start a story such as this one is to introduce the main character, and that, (I suppose), would be me. In no way am I the villain of the piece, but just to set the record straight, I'm not exactly being the hero either, y'know what I mean? My name is Allan Francis Doyle, and I will be your protagonist this evening.  
  
It all started, (like every interesting tale should), with copious amounts of alcohol. Every good anecdote I have ever told begins with that sentence, let me tell ya! But unlike the time I woke up on a beach in Llandudno with my pants around my ankles, this story is slightly more sombre, like. I first started visiting the Caritas bar a couple of weeks after my wife, Harriet, had left me. I'm thinking it's a little early in the story to be confusing you all with my tragic backstory, but it's the truth, and it'd be kinda daft to tell you all I was all chipper, when clearly my marriage had just broken up, so... fair play to me, alright?  
I spent most weeknights in one bar or another, hunched over a generous glass of single malt something, humming along to whatever pathetic country music was playing in the background. Oh, I was a real social butterfly, alright. To the casual observer there was no way to tell at first glance that I was Irish. Or, for that matter, that I was struggling to come to grips with my newly-discovered half-demon heritage.  
Y'see? How's that for a tragic backstory?  
I suppose, to the outside world, I could've been just about anybody. I didn't realise it at the time, but I wasn't 'just anybody'. Y'see, what I didn't know at the time was that I was special. Not 'special' as in 'remedial' like, I mean 'special' as in 'I had a purpose'. But I'm getting ahead of myself.  
I'd discovered the Caritas kinda by accident, whilst desperately trying to escape the grim reality of life through the nearest whisky bottle. I had been wandering the mean streets of LA for a couple of hours, letting my feet carry me to the safety of the nearest brightly lit bar at a pace that, quite frankly, I consider embarrassing. Caritas has the stereotypical uncomfortable, smokey atmosphere you expect from your local boozer, but at the same time it was protected by 'non-violence' sanctuary spell, so pretty much any human, demon, (or anything in the 'either/or' category, now you come to mention it), was protected there. In Caritas, everyone was welcomed.  
One particular night, (possibly a Wednesday. But, fecking semantics, eh?), a night like any other, I noticed some nasty demon-looking fellah staring at me. Looking back on it, the absolutely darlin' lemon yellow pinstripe suit the guy was wearing made it pretty impossible not to notice him noticing me, y'know? I may, at that point in time, have had a few outstanding gambling debts that... *ahem*... I had no intention of paying, so when a lad starts eyeing me up in a bar like that I either think 'gay' or I think 'potential bruiser'. I admit that debt collectors rarely have such a modest build, or for that matter rarely wear such unmodest business suits, but if you take into consideration I was sipping a Billy Dee served by a Luctru demon, and the vampire to my right had just offered me a cigarette, I was willing to admit that maybe snap-judgements weren't the way to go here. The only obvious thing about Demon-guy - asides from his natty dress sense - was that he had taken an interest in me. But if he was gay, it wouldn't have surprised me.  
His stare was all intense, and - I don't mind telling you - unsettling. Well, most stares are I suppose. Accidently making eye contact was possibly the stupidest thing I could ever have done, because as I have already established, subtlety wasn't much of a theme with this guy.  
He maneuvered his way into my peripheral vision and oh-so-casually leaned against the bar. I didn't bother to acknowledge his presence at first, deciding instead that I had no intention of actually getting to know this bloke.  
"Well," said the sharply-dressed demon-guy, cheerfully, "chin up, my petite pois! Life could be worse!"  
It was then that I realised I already *did*, and I'm not afraid to admit that, under the table, I kicked myself. Hard.  
  
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	2. Beer and Loathing in Los Angeles

TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 2, (AKA "Beer and loathing in Los Angeles")  
  
AUTHOR: Me, oh yes.  
  
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. Because Doyle is a dirty-mouthed little...! DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss. If I ever aspire to be, I better start eating more pies... FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (see chapter 1). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback, because as we all know, feedback is a writer's reason for existence. Glenn Quinn and Andy Hallett rock the llama's ass!  
  
The sharply-dressed demon, I suddenly recognised, was Lorne - The founder, owner, (and pretty much life and soul) of the Caritas bar. He may have been red-eyed, green-skinned, and had horns in some particularly awkward places, but with his hair all highlighted and recently styled he looked like an entirely different demon. Almost. The Caritas saw a lot of demon clientele so I could be forgiven for not recognising him at first. Well, that and the fact I had been drinking like a mad eejit.  
"I'm after a Billy Dee, if you're buying." I told him, still avoiding the eye contact thing.  
"You're drunk." And he sounded surprised, as well. Bless 'im.  
"M'not drunk. 'Bladdered' maybe. With an element of 'shit-faced' in there somewhere..." I signaled for the bar keeper to pour me another shot, and started shifting about uncomfortably. Lorne was staring at me again. It wasn't the kind of stare I was used to getting at a bar, y'know? It wasn't angry, or suspicious, or god help me, it wasn't even lusty. It was like he was trying to figure something out about me, but he wasn't quite getting it.  
"How do you feel?" Lorne asked, finally. I stared at the various empty bottles and shot glasses in front of me, and began to suspect I'd had one too many drinks.  
"Paralytic." I decided, before gracefully falling off my barstool. Sympathetically, Lorne nudged me with the toe of stylish suede shoes, but made no actual effort to get me to stand up, so I just lay there for a few seconds.  
Lorne looked down his perfectly hooked nose at me, "And will his Royal Drunkness be gracing us with a musical number this evening?"  
I climbed to my feet, "No, I don't think so."  
"Fine, have it your way, my precious. But while you're drowning your sorrows and mooching free pretzels, try to remember this is a karaoke bar? You've been in here practically every night this week!" And to be fair to Lorne, he was right. I had. "I haven't heard so much as a whistle out of you!" Which he hadn't, "There's not a single problem a client of mine has come to me with that couldn't be solved with a verse or two from Aretha Franklin."  
Oh, no. No no no. My life was weird enough without Aretha Franklin being tossed into the equation. "Sorry, man. If I'd known singing was mandatory, I would've order my drinks with a side order of barbiturates."  
Lorne shrugged, and made a conciliatory gesture with both his green hands. "Hey there... let's take a hospitality pill, okay? Singing is not mandatory, but you can't blame an ol' anagogic demon for trying, can you?" A few awkward seconds passed us by where I refused to chat to Lorne, and Lorne refused to let the conversation be. It was a fierce, fierce silence, exaggerated by my feelings of silent fierceness. When Lorne realised his comment was not going to provoke any reaction other then me suspiciously sniffing my drink, he decided to elaborate. "You don't know what an 'anagogic demon' is, do you?"  
  
"Any reason I should?"  
Lorne sighed, "It means I can read your aura and sense your future, my little dumpling. Oh, except that I can usually only do it when you sing karaoke. It's this whole big... *thing*... I've got going. Clients come to me, they sing, I help them out. It's as plain as a Pylean pin-up!"  
"That's how you make your livin'? So you're, like... prescient?"  
  
"Umm, I suppose. Slightly." Pfft. Only Lorne could be 'slightly' prescient. A frightening thought occurred to me. "I'm *not* singing, so don't go thinking you can read *my* aura, now. A man's aura is his own private kingdom, y'know?"  
Lorne shuffled awkwardly, "Well, ordinarily... I wouldn't. But sweetheart, you're an emotional billboard. You don't have to be singing for me to see you need help, in the worst possible way." Oh, that jammy bastard! Searching for a distraction of any kind, I folded and unfolded the nearest napkin about three or four times, just for something to do with my hands. I wondered if the adorable nicknames Lorne lavished upon me was part of the whole empath-mojo package, or just a delightful extra?  
"Hey, thanks for the concern, man, but as you can see - I'm as fit as a fiddle!"  
"Oh yeah, a paralytic fiddle that keeps falling off it's barstool. I can see that." Lorne scoffed, "Look, I can understand you're having some... 'difficulties'... dealing with all of this."  
  
"All of what?"  
  
He rolled his eyes melodramatically, and threw up his hands in mock surrender, "Oh, I give up!! Someone just shoot me in the head, please?? I'm talking about all this *power* you've got, my little irish coffee. You've been handpicked by the PTB to be a seer - a 'messenger', if you will. You've already had a couple of visions, right? Visions of people in danger?" I blinked, letting the moment pass. Truth be told, I had come to Caritas to forget about those little 'brain flashes', as I had taken to calling them. I always assumed the visions were part of my new, but not-so- improved demon heritage. And now, all of a sudden this guy was telling me I was... what? 'Chosen' ? By the 'PTB' ? Who, or what were the 'PTB' when they were at home? "Visions?" Lorne hissed, "Hello? You'd have noticed them, Pumpie. They should feel like seizures, but with pictures."  
I blinked again, suddenly fascinated by the strobe lights reflecting off Lorne's red horns.  
"The POWERS that BE?" Lorne pressed further. I gotta give him points for his resilience. The barman poured me another stiff drink , and I fiddled with the napkin some more, "How did *you* become a seer? Was there some 'collect 10 cereal tokens and become clairvoyant' competition I should know about?"  
"Alright, Mr. Sarcasm. Give it a rest, yeah?" I ran a pale, shaky hand through my hair, and contemplated smacking the green guy upside the head with it. "You've just told me I'm a messenger guy for some 'higher power' that I don't know anything about. I'm thinking I'm entitled to some serious 'shock' time here."  
At the time I thought I'd get used to the idea of being a seer. I thought that if I could just sober up, if I could just wrap my head around all the responsibility then the idea of being clairvoyant wouldn't seem so... well, 'fecking off the wall' was the phrase I used at the time. Truth is, even now I don't get it. In fact, I'm still adjusting to the idea of being part irish, part american and part blue-spikey-demon-thingie, but I think I'm coping a lot better now then I did, even if I do say so myself. When my marriage went arseways, responsibility was not my strong suit. In fact, I went through more goldfish in a month then most people went through packets of chewing gum. With this thought on my mind, I asked Lorne:  
  
"Are the PTB a big bunch of f-in' masochists?"  
"... I beg your pardon?"  
"I just didn't know that these so-called 'Powers' favoured us drunken- irresponsible types, y'know? Why would they pick me? Are they all omnipotent, like? Because surely then they'd know that I have enough frickin' trouble with me own answering machine, and wouldn't make a very good messenger, would I? "  
"Damned if I know. To say you're a drunken lout is an affront to drunken louts everywhere."  
  
I inhaled a sinus of scotch, "Hey!!"  
"Am I wrong?" Well, no. I guess he wasn't. Bastardbastardbastard. Lorne self consciously fixed his tie, and straightened himself up a bit. Yeah, like he was afraid my unfashionablism was contagious, or something. At the time, I was ready to deck him and move on to another bar, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the Powers That Be, beaconing me to my new vocation. Or maybe it was that fact the room was all swirly, and I couldn't stand on my own two feet. It was one of the two. Anyway, Lorne started speaking again.  
"Weeeeeeeeeell," It was amazing how he could make one syllable seemingly go on forever, "if you're a messenger, and you've got a message to give, who do you give it to?"  
  
I shrugged, "Post office?"  
"Not so, my little Lambkin. These people in your vision need help, they need a hero. The general idea is that somewhere, out there, there is this big hunk of hero sandwich ready, willing and able to save the people in your visions. Hencely, you find this Superman, team up with him, and put a stop to all your migrainey madness."  
This was a little hard to process, "There's a hero-bloke out there, somewhere, who can help with these visions?"  
"Yes." Lorne nodded.  
"I have to find him."  
  
"Yes."  
I started to get a little excited now, sobering up a little. After months of feeling like pondscum, I had just found out I actually had a purpose! I wasn't just a nobody, I was a somebody! A special kind of somebody! A messenger to a bloody superhero, no less!! "If I find this guy, then my 'headaches with pictures' will be able to save lives? And my days of migraines, nosebleeds, self-loathing and such will come to an en- well, a middle?"  
"Yes."  
"Which would be nice."  
"Yes."  
  
"Hey man, can you stop saying 'yes' all the time? It's very annoying, y'know."  
  
"Y- er, okay." Lorne agreed, cheerfully.  
"So," I stretched my tired limbs, already exhausted by the prospect of an honest day's work, "one problem remains. How do I find this guy?"  
"Oh, that's easy! I can read your future, can I not?"  
"Great! Read away!" I clapped my hands together, like a the big eager moron I was.  
"Nuh uh. You know the score, compadre." Lorne smirked evilly, and with great relish he jerked his green thumb in the general direction of the karaoke machine. I hung my head in shame. It was Aretha time. 


	3. An affair to dismember

TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 3, (AKA "Sunnydale, Californ-i-a") AUTHOR: Me, oh yes.  
  
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. Because I love to swear, oh yes, how I love to swear! Fuck! DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss. Damn him. FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (as always.). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback, because as we all know, feedback is a writer's reason for existence, et al. Hoping to pick up the pace a bit in this chapter, I mean... jeez! If this story gets anymore exciting it's gonna break out into a bridge game!  
  
Now, y'see... Sunnydale, California is approximately a 2 hour drive from the ol' Caritas bar, in LA. The first most striking thing that you'll notice about Sunnydale is it's bright and sunny climate. There's no beating it. There are rows and rows of immaculate, white picket houses with friendly and immaculate, white picket house-type folks living in them. All in all, it's a beautiful place to visit, all small and quiet, like. Totally different from the seedy underbelly of LA that I'm so used to.  
Of course, the second most striking thing about Sunnydale that you'll notice is it's Hellmouth, but I'm thinking I'm getting ahead of myself.  
Understand that whilst I was in Los Angeles drinking my body weight in cheap beer, in Sunnydale something else was going on. In the deepest, darkest corner of Sunnydale stood a creepy, big ol' mansion. This mansion, much like the rest of Sunnydale, was practically perfect in every way, and there was nothing especially evil about it.  
Or, for that matter, about the vampire that occupied it. I starting to think this story is becoming a little too sarcastic, y'know? I'm beginning to sound like Cordelia, here. Oh, wait... I haven't told you about Cordelia yet, have I? Ah, forget it. Ignore me.  
Anyway, this vampire fellah, he's got the hump. He goes by the name 'Angelus', (or 'Angel' to the people he hasn't tried to evisicate), and he doesn't have much in the way of mates. Angel doesn't sleep at night, being a vampire and such. I suppose that'd make him nocturnal, except that he's not totally nocturnal, because he doesn't sleep during the day either. He'd been having nightmares about that one time the previous summer where his Slayer-girlfriend sent him to hell, and therefore was a raging insomniac, and really - can you blame him?  
Sometimes our vampire friend tries a little Tai Chi to mellow himself out. Every so often, he feels all suffocated and will drop in on the Highschool library to oh-so-subtley check in on the very same Slayer- girlfriend that sent him to hell. That's pretty much how he justified his miserable existence, y'know? And I thought my backstory was tragic.  
Why am I telling you all this? Well, I'm just giving you a feel for this vampire-guy, because as Lorne told me, he was the very hero I was supposed to be consulting. It seems to make sense me introducing him to you now because, for all his hellish gal problems, Angel was having an infinately more interesting time then I was. After Lorne was finish reading my destiny, I spent the next few hours of my life alternating between phoning a few unsavoury characters from my address book, and shoving my head in the toilet bowl; I think I drank enough scotch that night to drop my own Aunt Judy.  
"Hello? This is Willy's bar, what d'ya want?" Was the familiar, weaselly voice from down the phoneline.  
"Willy? Is that any way to talk to an' old pal, man?"  
  
"Ah, uh... Doyle! It's good to hear from ya! Umm.. you do know I've been meaning to pay you that c-note back, right?"  
"Y'what?... oh, the 'Wolverines' game. Right, yeah. That's ancient history, yeah?"  
"Yeah?... I mean, uh... yeah!"  
I pinched the bridge of my nose, still feeling a little woozy from all that scotch I drank earlier, "Great, because I'm needing a favour. Pal. I'm looking for a vampire... "  
Willy answered just a little *too* quickly, y'know? "Sure, sure! I can help with that! What does he look like?"  
"Well... I dunno. From what I've heard, he looks pretty much like what he is: a corpse in a girlie black coat. But listen boyo, this vampire has this, like... he has this thing..."  
"... a vampire with a... thing ?"  
"Yeah, he has this whole 'soul' thing going for him, like a quest for redemption, or something? My man Lorne says this vamp should be in Sunnydale, and who else happens to be in Sunnydale, but my bestest ever pal Willy! How's the bar, Willy?"  
"It's er... it's good. Listen, I don't know anything about Angel. Never heard of him, I swear!"  
I could feel the startings of a hangover brewing, "Now, I never even said his name was Angel."  
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then the phone was put down. I turned to Lorne, "Yeah, Willy says he knows where Angel is. But it doesn't look like he's going to tell us over the phone."  
  
Lorne absently filed his nails, not even remotely interested. "Fabulous. So, we're travelling to Sunnydale? Can we rent a convertible?"  
"What?! No... no way, man! You're not coming with me! This whole messenger thing is my deal, right?"  
"Oh, come on. What's a little Hellmouth between friends?"  
"No."  
"Look, it's not like I don't have faith in your abilities, because I do... " Lorne thought about this for a minute, "Okay, no, I guess don't. You drink too much, and even though it pains me to pry myself away from my business to play diplomat between you and the vampire Lestat, I've heard some weird and not-so-wonderful things about this Angel guy, Lambkin. He doesn't like people, and you don't like people, and that equals... well, this is kinda anti-social math for the remedial, isn't it? You get the point."  
I was a tad offended, "Shut your face!"  
"Oh, debunch your panties, Doyle. I haven't said a word tonight that wasn't true."  
Well, he had me there. "Yeah, fair do."  
"So we're renting a convertable, right?"  
I shrugged my shoulders, "Yeah. Sure. Youbetcha." 


	4. Cor, Almighty

TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 4, (AKA "Cor, Almighty") AUTHOR: Mememememememememe...  
  
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. I think. I dunno. Maybe there is, but only for Season 3, and if you haven't seen Season 3 of Buffy yet then you're not my friend, and I don't even wanna know you, okay? SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters of Doyle, Angel, Cordelia or Lorne, for I am not Joss, and Joss is all-knowing. All hail Joss Whedon!! FEEDBACK: Ooo! Yes please! AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still Doyle POV, (as always.). Thank you all for the wonderful feedback everyone, but I don't do this for praise. Nono, I do this for CASH.  
  
The car I ended up driving was an absolute wreck, and Sunnydale, as a town, didn't fair much better. The car's transmission, I'm guessing, was completely shot, and the metallic paintwork was all peeling, like. And the radio? Well, the radio was only tuned into some fruity jazz station, and nobody wants to be stuck with *that* for a two hour car journey. Needless to say, I was starting to wish I hadn't bothered stealing it.  
Lorne, for his part, was annoying the crap out of me. It was about 4.30 in the morning, and we both knew that pretty soon the sun would be a- rising, and there would be little or no vamp-like activity beyond that point. It didn't mean he had to keep elbowing me in the stomach and telling me to drive faster.  
As we drove across the border into Sunnydale (home of the Great Angelus), Lorne peered around the side view mirror, trying to get a good at the bloke who was correcting the population number beneath the 'Welcome' sign. I remember him saying, "That doesn't bode well."  
And it didn't. I was beginning to wish I hadn't even let him talk me into this.  
"Okay," I told him, "We haven't got long till we get there, yeah? So I'm running through our itinerary one final time..."  
  
Lorne screwed up his face, "'Itinerary'? Since when did our good friends at the PTB start passing out itineraries? I think I must've missed that memo."  
I shrugged, "Hey - all great plans need an itinerary, Lorne-o. Firstly, we need to track down my man Willy, chances are he'll still be at his bar and cowering under the table. We can help ourselves to a couple of drinks while we find out where this vamp-guy is. We have another drink - just for courage, mind - and then head on out to find this guy. Then we can celebrate."  
"'Celebrate'? Oh, let me guess, with drinks?  
"Ah ha! You did get the memo, then?"  
  
Lorne rolled his eyes, "You are a walking stereotype, mister. And all this drinking isn't good for you."  
"I've already got a mother." I said, tersely. Lorne didn't even look a little bit offended, he just rolled his eyes and continued looking out at the landscape. The sky had become a very dark blue, and was starting to get noticeably lighter. "Hey, I'm sorry man." I said, honestly, "but I'm really trying here, okay? I've just found out I'm a puppet to the Powers, y'know? It's bound to make a guy a little testy." I was a puppet to the Powers. How many people could say that, hm?  
Lorne wasn't mad, he was... well, he was Lorne. Lorne, apparently, doesn't get mad easily. He does have a lot of sarcasm issues, but other then that he's pretty zen-like.  
"I don't think you're really trying very *hard*." He insisted, "I mean, and let's be honest here, the only reason you got into this car in the first place was because you were still slightly hammered. Hence your driving all over the place at ridiculously slow speeds, but I digress... my point is: everytime I say absolutely anything in a raised voice, you clutch your head and whimper pathetically."  
  
"I do not!"  
"Give it up, petal. You're HUNGOVER."  
I winced, and involuntarily went to grab my head. My own hand has a mind of it's own, the bastard. And how many people could say that, hm?  
Lorne just chuckled in a very Lorne-like way, "See what I mean? You drink too much."  
  
"Most girls think it's sexy. All dangerous, like."  
"'Sexy'?"  
"Yes, tiger?" I couldn't help myself. It was the first time I'd made a decent joke in weeks, and it was worth it to see Lorne's all ready bug- enough eyes bug out that little bit more. He was right though, about the drinking. I'd drunk a whole bottle of scotch in under an hour that night. How many people could say that, hm?  
"Pull over." Lorne told me.  
"Y'what?"  
  
"Pull over, and park the car. I think I see a hitch hiker." Great. That was all I needed.  
I drew the car, (and use the word 'car' in the loosest possibly context here), up to the side of the road, and parked it. Looking around for this hitchhiker-bloke Lorne had apparently spotted. I wasn't in the mood for any axe-murdering types hoping in the back of my brand new convertible, (such as it was), but I was too tired and too hungover to argue with Mr Garden-hue sitting next me.  
What happened next, I didn't expect.  
Lorne once told me that Sunnydale, being this big Hellmouth and all, attracts demons to Southern California with it's nasty hell-like energies. And that, folks, is why Southern California has such a wide variety of hellbeasts.  
Now that I think about it, California also has a wide selection of attractive girls. Huh. So, in Lorne's own theory it would appear that the very same Hellmouth energies that attract the demons of hell also attracts an inordinate amount of hotties to the area. I always knew women were evil.  
  
Ah, wandering away from the plot. There I was, patiently waiting with my swimming head leaning against the steering wheel, while this axe- murdering hitchhiker hoped in the back seat of my car. The twist being, the axe-murdering hitchhiker turned out not to be carrying an axe at all.  
Nor, to my knowledge, was she a murderer.  
She was a hottie: brunette, a pretty little thing and undoubtedly a cheerleader by trade. According to the license plate on her car a couple of yards back, she goes by the name 'QueenC'.  
You've probably never met QueenC, I'd wager. But if you did, you'd remember it, and more to the point - you'd see what I mean about women being evil. I was smitten from the word 'Go!' Far from being your average hitchhiking psycho, she was an absolute stunner in the looks department, and seemed to be quite personable. Well, until she went and opened her mouth:  
"Pfft!" Our guest said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, "What the hell kind of transport is this? I didn't know they even sold cars at Walmart."  
"I think I'm going to be sick now." I said. And I was. 


	5. My hangover and other nightmares

TITLE: The Powers, inc. Chapter 5, (aka "My Hangover and over nightmares!") AUTHOR: Well, me.  
  
ARCHIVE: I'm an archive whore. Just lemme know, okay? SPOILERS: None, yet. SETTING: Buffy season 3, (pre-ATS). RATING: PG -13. I think. So, don't go crying to mummy if you get offended.  
  
DISCLAIMER: Mah. They're not mine. Joss owns them. If *I* owned the character of Cordelia, I wouldn't have treated her so shabbily and stuffed her comatose body in one of Wolfram and Hart's filing cabinets somewhere, never to be seen again. Oh, sorry... I didn't mean to vent. This is between me and Joss. But while we're at it, DOYLE WAS A DAMN GOOD CHARACTER!!! FEEDBACK: Hell, yes. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU BTVS/ATS crossover, or at least, it *will* be. Maybe. (I dunno. What's with all the questions? I'm not on trial here!) It's a Doyle POV kinda deal, and is basically me rewriting every little detail in the Buffyverse since before Angel left Sunnydale. I'm a busy little beaver. And Glenn Quinn really, really kicked ass, so I hope I'm doing him justice here.  
  
Our hitchhiker was sitting in the back seat of our modest little car, using the wing-mirror to reapply a dangerous shade of lipstick. Lorne was standing by the car door, holding it open whilst at the same time, leaning all casual-like against the roof. Me? I had my head in the bushes, puking my very guts out. We were a couple of miles out of our intended destination,Willy's bar, with little or no prospects of moving anywhere anytime soon. "Are you planning on driving me anywhere tonight, or should I just give up right now and start walking in my two hundred dollar shoes?" I think I shouted out something like, "Don't let me be stopping you!", because the next thing I knew, our unexpected guest was leaning over me, her long brown hair forming a pretty little halo around her head. "Ewww..." She ewwed, before brightly adding, "Can you drop me off at Sunnydale High? I'm late for a study group."  
  
"It's nearly four in the morning." Lorne added, helpfully. "Ye-eah. I'm *really* late. Like, several hours late. Any chance you boys could drop me off, now-ish? And possibly take a quick tour around Sobriety- Land afterwards? That'd be neat." "Princess, we're kinda on a life-and-death mission here. That 'walking' idea of yours doesn't sound so bad now." "Walk? I can't *walk*. Cord-.." She went to say something, but quickly amended herself, "Willow Rosenberg does not *walk*." My eyes flicked to her broken-down car a few metres away, and remembered the clearly personalised 'QueenC' license plate. I asked her, "Willow Rosenberg? Is that a Jewish name, now?"  
  
"I don't know. What am I, a rabbi or something? Or whatever the female- version of 'rabbi' is? I am so not walking, do you know how many creepy things are out this late at night?" "It's either that or shutting your yap, princess." "Willow Rosenberg doesn't do that either. What is this life-and-death mission thing, anyway? Is it some college boy 'get drunk' thing? Like a 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas' kind of deal? Because neither of you have even an ounce of Johnny Depp-itude about you, and just because you have the convertible, and possibly a boot-full of narcotics, doesn't mean you can get away with dressing the way that you do... although the drugs would explain a lot..." Quick as a greyhound, she was off. Cordelia Chase, I was soon to learn, was a master of wordmanship. Within ten minutes of knowing her it was painfully obvious that the girl may have had enough cheek in her to break your heart in five words or less, but she was also prone to veering off into vitriolic rantings at the blink of an eyelash. I went about my business, hurling. If I wasn't so wasted, I'd be god smacked. Shaking off the fatigue, I had to pull myself up and look her in the eye. So, I'd completely sobered up now. I was well aware I'd made an all holy show of myself, and there was not a drop of alcohol for a couple of miles that could amend it. Sensing my change in attitude, 'Willow' quietened. "What?" She demanded. "Sunnydale High, was it?"  
  
"Well, *yeah*." She said, annoyed. "Fine. I'm wrecked though, so quiet your yammering to twelve words or less, 'kay princess?" Indignant, she turned away from me and tugged on the car door handle until it finally opened, "Willow Rosenberg does not yam-" "Just get in the car, Queen C."  
  
"Fine." She said absently, not even realising I'd caught her real name. She crawled into the back seat of the car, and I climbed in next to her as Lorne took the wheel. "And in future, don't go making a habit of getting into cars with strange men, okay? I mean, God knows I'm not that fussed, but there are a lot of mean bastards out there, y'know? And from what I've gathered, you ain't always on-the-ball..."  
  
"I am *totally* on the ball! I *live* on the ball! The ball is my frien-" her eyes drifted to Lorne, "Holy Crap! You're a demon!!" Lorne rolled his eyes, "Yep." He said, "We've caught a sharp one, here." And started the car. 


End file.
